Unfit for Duty
by Fiona Fargazer
Summary: (Babar) While beginning the final preparation plans for the second annual Victory Parade, Pompadour is stricken with an unknown illness. When he seems to get better he tries to continue with work on the festivities but ignores his doctor's orders to report anything unusual when it seems only a trifling thing...
1. Chapter 1

JMJ

**NOTE: **_It's kind of mixing the Babar movie and the show together even though there are some things about the movie that don't quite match up. I took some liberties. this fanfic isn't going to be very long, but it was something I was writing to take a break from a much larger project. So with all that said I guess it's time to start. Oh, and I made up the story with my sister so much of credit goes to her._

**Unfit for Duty**

Chapter One

As slick as oil and just as black, his shoes shone their brightest as Pompadour stepped into his office that bright morning. His snow-white wig had not a tangle. His clothes were crisp and pressed without a wrinkle, and he himself was nicely cleaned. Top that off with a fine Parisian-styled cologne and he was ready for duty as he was every morning. A cheerful demeanor after a croissant and a cup of café crème helped too, and that short walk along the terrace aired that cologne a little that had been put on with a little too much zeal for most people's taste.

Pompadour clapped his forefeet together pleased to begin the day. He loved his job and loved to be busy about it. Things were going to be quite wonderfully busy very soon and for a very good cause. As always Pompadour was determined to be prepared.

"What better way to begin the mid-planning stages for the Victory Celebrations than with the arrival of the finest Indian ink all ready for the finest paper from the finest paper farm in Elephantland!" exclaimed Pompadour as Troubadour arrived with his parcel from India.

Pompadour held up the finest pen thoughtfully in his trunk and was already envisioning testing it with ecstasy.

Mute as always but looking immensely pleased, Troubadour promptly lifted the parcel up to his superior's ready arms.

"Ah, how good it is that it came just in time!" Pompadour went on.

Troubadour nodded eagerly.

"After all, Troubadour, the business surrounding the second anniversary of the Victory Parade deserves our absolute best efforts! How the day will be celebrated will depend upon this year for generations!"

Having set the parcel on the desk at hand Pompadour set the pen down and proceeded to open it, and there they all were in three pristine rows. Each wonderfully shaped bottle of high-grade ink gleamed with promise in segregated stalls of wooden strips and nestled in packing straw as though each bottle was a precious egg with a nest of its own.

However, Pompadour, whose sharp eyes easily noticed any imperfection to such order could not help but rest his vision curiously, if nothing else, upon a certain dried plant that was no piece of straw and certainly did not appear as though it belonged. It was not necessarily unattractive in its own way. The now dried-out flower at the top must have been glorious in its prime, but it was not fit for packing material for the very fact that it was too nice of a plant. As it was also not nestled into place properly it could be surmised that it had simply blown in before the parcel could be sealed.

"Hmm," mused Pompadour and muttered, "Blowing in would imply that the workspace for packing is not exactly up to standard, though."

Maybe he should have waited and bought ink from within Celesteville, after all. It had only been because the city had been low on ink when he wanted some that he ordered something from abroad.

It would not be the last time Pompadour would think this either, and the reason for this would soon become clear.

When Pompadour picked the plant up to examine the unknown object closer, he quickly realized that it was no coincidence that the tickle in his throat had appeared with the opening of the parcel. His eyes began to water, and with his trunk around the dried stem of the plant, the dusty particles quickly overcame him as he inhaled.

Such a powerful odor and such a powerful sting went through his entire body that it nearly paralyzed him as though he had been electrocuted, except for the fit of coughing as he dropped the plant back into the box. He could not keep himself upright. Knees buckling, he collapsed onto the floor knocking over the chair. With forefeet out in front him on the carpet, the designs in it melded dizzyingly before he closed his eyes. He could not think as his lungs began to burn and it became difficult to breathe. His mind began to whirl.

Troubadour had not been at all idle. Upon finding that his superior could not see his frantic gestures, he flew from the room to get help as fast as his short legs could carry him, which was surprisingly speedily.

When help came poor Pompadour was writhing in pain on the floor and a doctor was sent for immediately even while Pompadour was helped by Cornelius and the young king himself into his room to bed. Though, as a servant was sent to look after him once it was seen that he could breathe again and he could relax in bed until the doctor arrived, King Babar then went quickly about the business of finding out what had happened.

Troubadour wasted no time in motioning him and Cornelius back downstairs.

"Whatever _could_ have happened?" Cornelius was saying as he followed at the rear mopping his head with a handkerchief.

Young King Babar already had his eye upon the open parcel on the desk before Troubadour could hop up and point towards it.

"Babar?" Cornelius asked as he noticed him heading for the desk.

But before Babar could answer him, Troubadour blocked the king's way shaking his head violently with arms outstretched. Even as Babar stopped he felt his head swim a little and felt a scratch in his throat. He put a forefoot to his head and stepped back, but he could see the plant from where he stood. Its dust was sprinkled over the bottles and the desk.

"Are you alright, my boy?" asked Cornelius.

"Just barely," said Babar still staring at that plant; then he turned to Troubadour. "Thanks, Troubadour."

Troubadour nodded and bowed to express, "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Someone needs to come who can take that plant away and see what it is," said Babar.

And it was done.

By the time the Doctor arrived and was shown the plant specimen sealed in a protective glass case, the coughing had subsided, but Pompadour was quite in pain and moaning bitterly when he found his voice at all.

Babar, Cornelius, and Troubadour stood by now as the Doctor examined him, and Pompadour took his examination with as much decorum as he could muster, sitting as straight as could be managed for the Doctor's convenience with his back propped up against his high headboard with a pile of feather pillows. He was a little recovered but still looked as awful as he felt— very pale in the face and strained in the eyes as he swallowed with difficulty on his swollen throat. He shook and shivered as though very cold and his body felt buzzed and fuzzy, which he truthfully told to the Doctor with a shaky voice when asked.

When given a thermometer he had a touch of a fever. His pulse was taken, his heart and lungs listened to, and his throat and eyes investigated.

At the end of it all the doctor said gravely, "I believe that this is more than a simple allergic reaction."

"Well, it is pretty powerful," Babar said with concern, seeing how easily he had almost been affected himself, "what do we need to do?"

"You don't need to do anything, Sire," Pompadour managed miserably, for even through his pain he did not like the fuss he was causing, "whatever the Doctor orders I'm sure between him and myself it won't be necessary for anyone else to…"

He shook and coughed and lay his head back down with a moan.

"Try to stay relaxed, Pompadour," said Cornelius.

The Doctor agreed with a prompt nod. "He's right. Relaxing here is the best for now. Hopefully, it will settle down on its own, but we can have someone study what this plant really is in the meantime. I'm… admittedly unfamiliar with it."

"Then we should find a good botanist," said Babar.

"Perhaps, but our study of botany in Celesteville is pretty localized," said the Doctor, "as far as I know."

"May I ask," said Pompadour weakly, "what it is that you are most concerned about, Doctor?"

"Well," the Doctor hesitated, "I don't want to alarm anyone without a cause…"

"Then I'm already alarmed," Pompadour squeaked with proud irritation, and he coughed again and shook strangely.

"Calm yourself, Pompadour," said Cornelius more seriously than before. "Do try."

Pompadour moaned again and threw his forefoot over his sweaty brow.

"You'll have to tell us," said Babar to the Doctor.

"Well, I'd like to take a blood sample before I say anything more, but it seems to be affecting more than just Mr. Pompadour's respiratory system. I will perhaps do more testing to make sure about that."

"So you think it's serious?" said Babar gravely.

The others winced.

No one involved was a stranger to the effects of mortality. Babar most of all had felt the reality of the delicacy of life from a very early age with the death of his mother, and her death had been felt by all the herd before the days of prosperity and safety within the walls of Celesteville. The death of the previous king was also not so very long ago and had been poisoned by a thing that had seemed so very harmless just like the dried plant still in the protective glass container.

"But I don't feel _that_ sick," Pompadour insisted quickly. "Besides! I can't be sick for very long. What about the preparation for the Victory Parade and all the festivities?"

Babar put his forefeet on his hips firmly and even before he spoke Pompadour sighed in defeat.

"You're just going to have to not worry about that, Pompadour," said the king. "Your health is more important."

"We'd rather have you well to enjoy the festivities than have you go on with the preparations in a sickly state," Cornelius added, "you should know that."

"Well, I do," Pompadour admitted.

"Right," said Babar. "Cornelius and Troubadour will take care of it for now. You just concentrate on getting well. Besides, you already did most of the preparations anyway."

"Well, no, actually," said Pompadour stifling a cough to maintain regality. "I only did the preliminary work, Sire. There's still the final layout to consider, and there have been a great number of last minute changes to the palace banquet and some misunderstanding with the fireworks committee and not to mention that within the parade itself—"

"I'm sorry, Pompadour," Babar interrupted, "whatever it is, we can all take care of it for you."

"Of course we can," said Cornelius.

Troubadour nodded hastily.

"I understand, Your Majesty," said Pompadour with much reluctance.

"Good," said Babar and turning to the Doctor he said, "Doctor, how serious do you _think_ it is besides the fear of what it _could_ be?"

"I would judge that it is not fatal," said the Doctor with care, "but it could be damaging if we're not careful, so for now I prescribe resting well with lots of liquid to try to wash out whatever residue of the plant particles are there, some good herbal tea and soup, and an anti-inflammatory medicine which I'm prescribing along with something that will take down the fever, and before I'll leave I'll take that blood sample."

"_Oh_…" moaned Pompadour squeezing his eyes shut.

He did not want to say out loud how much he hated needles; although admittedly he had never thought much about them until this very moment having never found himself in a situation in which he had to face them before so personally. But taking a deep breath he lifted his forefoot and cringed as he kept his head away from the sight of it while the doctor did this last deed.

* * *

After that Pompadour was left to his room to recuperate. He was given plenty of herbal tea and soup along with his medicine and mostly stayed in bed under the covers or seated on top in robe and slippers. The coughing subsided and the shaking grew less. The fatigue that had kept him from doing anything too straining at such a time vanished nearly completely along with the fever. At this time he put himself to work with a little writing— they were only rough drafts— so that his mind would not go stir crazy after the second day. Even still by the fourth day he was so anxious to hear the results from the Doctor that he had begun pacing about in his room.

At last the tests were in and the conclusion was not very conclusive, which bubbled up irritation all the more when Troubadour gave the paper to him.

"Why! Nothing's conclusive," Pompadour complained. "It says here that I may be in danger of damage to my nervous system as the plant is apparently related to another plant known in the Jungle for giving its victims complete paralysis along with a great number of other problems from various other bodily systems! The Doctor will be here later today. I do hope he has more to say than this."

Troubadour made a face and nodded as to say that he was sure he would.

But by the time the Doctor came, it was clear that no one knew anything for certain.

After the checkup, the Doctor said, "You seem normal enough for now, but don't push yourself. And if you feel anything out of the ordinary— anything at all, you are to stop work immediately and send word to me."

Pompadour gave the Doctor a defiant sort of look. "If, nothing's happened so far, I trust it will continue to be so unless I'm supposed to announce every little shiver and clearing of my throat."

The Doctor ignored him but to Troubadour who was the only other one around for this checkup he said quietly, "Make sure everyone knows he's supposed to take it easy."

Pompadour gave sniff for had heard him easily enough, and after a moment he smiled and said, "Forgive me, Doctor, but if there is something wrong with me, I will be sure to tell you. There's no need to alarm anyone, but I'm sure this is all just formality."

"Hopefully," said the Doctor with a nod, and then taking up his hat he left the room.

"Well," said Pompadour, who was well on his feet now and looking quite pleased. "If you don't mind, Troubadour, I would like some privacy to finally get out of my robe."

Slumping his shoulders, Troubadour turned from the door to Pompadour and nodded with understanding. He withdrew from the room and went straight to the office, but he did not wait for Pompadour to set himself to taking up a pen. Quickly he wrote the Doctor's orders on a piece of paper. Moving quickly, so as to be back in the office before Pompadour arrived, he scurried to find Cornelius who then went with him to the king on the balcony.

Babar was happily enjoying the company of Zephir there in between studies when Troubadour and Cornelius arrived.

Zephir tried not to wince thinking that it was some palace business that would give him a headache, but as Troubadour gave Babar the message the king smiled.

"We'll make sure," said Babar, "but if Pompadour thinks he's well enough to work, I'm sure he'll go back to bed if he feels he can't do something, right, Cornelius?"

"Of course!" said Cornelius with a chuckle. "He follows the rules by the book more than anyone I know."

"Yeah, maybe too much," said Zephir with a grin.

Babar gave him a wry look.

Then Troubadour hurried back to the office just before Pompadour arrived looking more pompous than usual, but still quite happy despite his unsmiling official expression.

"Now, Troubadour, four days is quite a bit to miss," he said fully dressed and fresh with his ornamental cane along with him as he made his way to the desk importantly. "I want to know where we're at in every detail in case anything has taken a poor turn in my absence."

Troubadour crossed his arms lightly.

"It's not that I don't trust you and Cornelius," Pompadour explained as he began at once to look over some of the papers left on the desk top. "It's simply that— well, I am the Royal Minister of Protocol, after all." He paused thoughtfully as he came to a certain letter and his eyes widened.

"Oh!" he said. "I should have known it would come to this."

Now, Troubadour frowned and made sure Pompadour really saw it as he and Cornelius had been working things out just fine, especially with some of the king's input. There was no reason to be that full of oneself, but that was not what Pompadour meant at all.

"It's Rataxes!" he said, and after a pause, he grumbled, "I sense the work of Basil in this."

Realizing what Pompadour was talking about Troubadour nodded in agreement and a little sigh.

Quoting a bit of it, Pompadour read aloud, "'With all the kingdoms desiring peace with one another, we, the rhinos find the commemoration of the elephants of Celesteville triumphing over the rhinos of Rhinoland to be in poor taste as the public apologies of Lord Rataxes and the amends made in compensation for the wrongs done to the elephants has been fulfilled and accepted by the court of King Babar. Thus it is seen by the court of Lord Rataxes as an affront and an outright attempt to incite renewed enmity between elephants and rhinos even to go so far as to say _racially_ unacceptable.'?

"What cheek! What audacity!" said Pompadour. "What has been done to combat this? Surely no one in all the Jungle will wish to endorse such accusations, but nevertheless it must be officially denied in the case that he's been able to influence some of the other leaders to his side by force and trickery. After all, everyone knows that although the expenses has been handled not every promise has been kept by Lord Rataxes including that about interfering with our affairs. Besides, the festivities have nothing to do with _him_ or any of his people for that matter. He's just trying to get into our business and ruin everything as he usually does, but that's why we're needed, Troubadour."

While he was speaking, Troubadour quickly drew forth the letter he had been working on in Pompadour's absence. He read it through and then sat down at his desk. With a shake of his head he said, "Troubadour, this _isn't_ quite enough. I like the emphasis on the fact that this is simply another form of bullying us and that the Victory Parade and the related festivities have nothing against any rhino in being a rhino but is only our own private celebration of the victory of our freedom from tyranny and the stopping of a war. It's not that isn't a good start, but I think we need to get a little deeper than that to make certain our points are clear and completely irrefutable."

Again he stood up, and clearing his throat he went into dictating mode pacing about leisurely as he went about. Troubadour took the seat climbing up into the desk and quickly went to write, not really all too offended by his superior's critique of his work. On the contrary it was rather a compliment coming from Pompadour, but he did eye Pompadour with a bit of suspicion as he dictated, for on more than one turnabout he looked just a little uncharacteristically unsteady. His mind also was not quite as on tract as his appearance, and he corrected himself a little more than he did normally, pausing and muttering to himself.

But then Pompadour had been out of it for a few days and Troubadour supposed there had to be room for further recovery. Besides, Pompadour made no actual sign of being in any sort of pain or discomfort.

_By tomorrow he should be more himself_, Troubadour thought.

That evening came too quickly for Pompadour as he had only been about business for half a day, and he would have gone on working quite late if Troubadour had not held up the Doctor's notice just after ten o'clock.

Pompadour blinked up from his work sleepily and it seemed to take a moment for him to focus on the paper. He frowned briefly with irritation but he consented with himself nodding.

"Yes, yes, you're quite right Troubadour," he said. "I mustn't overwork myself on the first day. After all, tomorrow is going to be quite busy heading into town for all the reports from everyone involved with the festivities." He yawned. "But I am pleased to say that I haven't felt anything unusual all day so there's no need to wave that in front of me anymore."

Standing up, he waved his trunk for emphasis upon the matter and then bade Troubadour goodnight.

There was something in his face that Troubadour did not like. Though he told himself that he was only being concerned about his superior and there was probably nothing to worry about. If Pompadour was acting a little nervous about his illness, there was good enough reason even if there was nothing wrong with him at all anymore. After all, even someone as optimistic in his own abilities to the point of arrogance like Pompadour could still feel the fear of the unknown in the doctor's concerns.

_That's probably it_, he thought, and so went to bed himself after clearing the desk properly.


	2. Chapter 2

JMJ

**Chapter Two**

"I'm pleased to find you so much more yourself today, Pompadour," said Cornelius over the dining room table at lunch the next day, "especially after such a scare."

"Thank you, Cornelius," said Pompadour.

"So are you feeling better then?" asked Babar.

"I was surprised at the energy and enthusiasm he showed today," said Cornelius. "Nearly back to top form, I'd say."

"Oh, yes, Sire! I'm much better, thank you for your concern," said Pompadour pleasantly, and he bowed his head in gratitude and a smile. "I'm much better than yesterday. I'm quite back to my usual self today, and it felt invigoratingly good to be outside again about Celesteville."

"That's good!" said Babar. "You should tell the Doctor right away."

This idea pleased Pompadour all the more and he beamed downright merrily as he took a sip of his soup, but he sensed the shrewd observation of Madame who also joined them most lunches and he suddenly felt a little nervous. For you see, he was not quite telling the truth in this matter. What concerned him more than Madame's observation of the wear on his face and the slight nervousness in his eyes was Babar's quick observation of Madame's concern, for any slight concern of Madame's was sensed by Babar as one would for a dear mother.

"What is it, Madame?" asked Babar.

Before Madame could answer, Pompadour quickly said more pleasantly than ever, "I may have overdid it just a little, I'll admit it, Your Majesty, but I promise to take it easy this afternoon!"

Babar turned to Pompadour and then back at Madame, and Madame smiled calmly.

"I was only going to say that proving whether or not he's back to normal seems to be bringing more stress than less." To Pompadour she said specifically, "You should relax about it otherwise the stress about it will wear you down again. If something really does come up we'll all know."

Pompadour visibly did relax, and he smiled again as soon as she had finished.

"Thank you, Madame, that is an excellent way to put it," said Pompadour. "I suppose stressing out about it has made me a bit unsure of things."

"You're welcome," said Madame, "though, that doesn't mean that if you feel tired you shouldn't rest."

"Agreed, Madame," said Pompadour and thus ignored the tremor in his body that caused a little discomfort.

The wisdom of the good Lady was enough to put him at ease about it. He nearly laughed at himself for worrying. Everything was quite fine, and he had nearly caught up with everything he had not been able to do while sick with how good about things Cornelius and Troubadour had been in his absence.

He took a bite of his bread and butter and the tremor returned, but it was quite ignorable so he paid it no mind. He felt it best to ignore anything unless it was serious. Thus he continued the rest of the day sorting through the findings of the opinions and facts he had gathered around Celesteville with Cornelius. Then he made progress on his response to Rhinoland in dictating to Troubadour who frowned often and looked up more than usual at his superior with suspicious squints.

Because, yes, he would feel suddenly a prickling sensation in his legs, and it would cause him to misstep. He would pause in his speech from a sudden prickling sensation in his head like the beginnings of a headache, but it would pass.

_There's nothing to be alarmed about_, he told himself simply. _After all, the great Madame herself agrees that nervousness can cause one to see problems where they don't exist!_

He spoke nothing of the way he felt to Troubadour and hoped he would not bring it up. Whenever something got in the way that would sometimes make him lose himself in the intricately numerous coaches of his ever-complicated train of thought, he would try to hide it in a clearing of his throat, a sip from a glass of mineral water, or a straightening of his wig or coat. Then Pompadour would continue as best as he could, but as his secretary, Troubadour probably knew his mannerisms better than anyone else in the palace— maybe even more that Cornelius who had helped raise him for a time in childhood long before the days of Celesteville.

Even if Troubadour had been able to speak, however, he would not have mentioned anything to Pompadour while he was in dictation mode. Such a thing would not have done any good. Not even the king himself could get much through to Pompadour when his mind was on a roll, and he was especially passionate about this letter as it was more than just any document of protocol. Though, all documents were important in Pompadour's eyes, this one in particular was a matter of pride. If there was one thing that ran deeper through his veins than his foppish exterior and obsession s with organization it was the dignity of his country and love for his people. This bore within him a warrior's strength of duty and purpose that still echoed from his early rough life in the Jungle that had not been quite forgotten.

As Pompadour said when he felt that he had finished dictating to reread the quite extensive letter as it was so far, "It's a matter of principle! They simply cannot get away with this and it won't if I have anything to say about it! As far as I'm concerned Rataxes should have thought about all this before mordantly deciding to capture poor Elephants like some savage brute nearly equaling himself to the Hunter of old! And to think that King Babar himself had come to his rescue not long before that from the Hunter's Camp! Ungrateful. Ever ungrateful. The whole Jungle would already be at peace if it weren't for his unsurpassed envy of His Royal Majesty."

Troubadour agreed.

Shaking his head importantly and seating himself at his desk, he began to read.

The letter was quite lengthy and there was still a bit to go. It took some time to go through it even going so far as having to wait until after supper to finish reading most of it. It made it take longer than usual to have his vision slightly blur, and he would find himself stooping over his desk sleepily or pausing until some pain or nausea passed through him. Crossing his eyes suddenly he even fell upon his paper and lost his spot for a while, but once he had finished he felt satisfied. He was too happy with it to bother with strange aches and shivery pains.

He stood up from his seat.

"Oh!" he suddenly moaned as a wave of dizziness swam over him and he put his forefoot to his head.

He paused.

No one seemed to be around at the moment. Only the sound of crickets that he had not noticed before echoed behind him through the long palace windows. Blinking at the desk in front of him, he shook his head, feeling that the bout had passed. The sudden wave of fear went with it, and straightening himself he went about scrolling up the letter, which would have been too much of a nuisance in single sheets. Putting it under his arm he thought that a cup of herbal tea would clear his head before going to bed, but just as he stepped around the desk he saw Troubadour.

Pompadour jolted a little in surprise to see him, especially in his robe and slippers for bed, but he quickly recovered himself straightening his coat and stifling a yawn.

"Is something wrong, Troubadour?" he demanded.

Troubadour held up a pocket watch by the chain in his trunk so that the timepiece swung a little before Pompadour could see the time.

Again feeling surprised to see how late it was, Pompadour's eyes jolted if nothing else. He looked back at the desk.

"I must've fallen asleep!" said Pompadour. "And I had thought to go to bed early too, but I never have fallen asleep so early at my desk before! It was only just before nine that I…"

He returned to Troubadour with some annoyance as the little secretary held up the Doctor's note about taking it easy and reporting anything unusual about himself right away.

"So I'm a little tired," said Pompadour with a regal sniff and closing his eyes. "That doesn't mean there's anything wrong enough to alarm anyone about. I must still be worn out from the attack on my respiratory system. More than I realized or wanted to admit, and today was admittedly a vigorous one, but it won't be repeated, I assure you. I don't want to wake up tomorrow knowing that you've alarmed everyone in the palace, especially His Majesty when he has so many other pressing matters on his plate. Such a good many important things have come up this year. He has a right to enjoy himself at the festivities of his own clever and courageous triumph, and I intend to make certain he does enjoy it! So I'm going to bed right now with a cup of tea and tomorrow everything will be back to normal."

Troubadour sighed and looked at his superior wearily for a moment.

"I mean it, Troubadour," said Pompadour crossing his arms. "If there is something wrong with me I will call the Doctor myself and go about it discretely. There's no reason to make a fuss about it."

There was another short pause and Pompadour opened one of his high-held closed eyes and lowered it down to Troubadour impatiently.

"Alright. I promise that _tomorrow_ if I'm not perfectly myself, I will call him."

Troubadour nodded with approval.

"Good!" said Pompadour quite happy again and after wishing the secretary a goodnight he went for his cup of herbal tea, but out of the sight of Troubadour and the need to keep up his appearance, he suddenly felt very weak.

He almost dropped his cup filled with hot liquid and thought it might have been better to have sent a servant to fetch it instead, but he managed not to spill before having it on his nightstand. Once in his night shirt and having crawled into bed, he sat up to drink but soon caught himself downright cringing into his cup as his head began to buzz and his limbs to shake.

Stubbornly he blinked it away and drank his tea to the bottom letting the herbs do their thing and then with a huff, he flopped onto his side and pulled the covers roughly around him. Though as rough was not his style even frustrated as he was alone in bed, after a few moments he smoothed everything out again and remembered just in time to turn out the light before falling into a tight and painful sleep.

When his consciousness was aroused it was quite sudden and to the sound of someone shouting outside. So suddenly did he wake up that he snorted and shook trying to reorient himself enough to figure out where he was and why as he bolted into a seated position. Once realizing that he was only in his bedroom, he was still too groggy yet to think of anything else but of going back to sleep. Sinking into his pillow again he muttered something from a warped dream. Closing his heavy eyes he was about to start snoring again, but just as he felt himself drifting away on that lovely stream of unconsciousness, he realized that a lovely stream of sleep should not be highlighted with a golden morning glow.

His eyes popped back open and he grabbed his monocle from his bed stand as he pried himself from bed. He felt cold and shivery although it was quite a pleasant time of year, but once on his feet and standing in the middle of his room he could see the full brightness of morning coming in through the partly opened curtains. Glancing at his clock he moaned.

"Oh, I've never, never slept in so late before," he complained. "Not even when I was actually sick."

_Unless you still are sick from some horrible side effect of the plant from which you will never be fully healed again_, a fear passed through his mind.

He paused staring blankly past his clock, but he quickly shook his head.

"I'm not sick enough to alarm anyone," he told himself. "It's just a small setback from overdoing it yesterday."

It was hardly yet an hour later than when he usually roused, but it was far too late for him when he realized that that shout, although meaning nothing bad for the shouter he was sure, meant that it was late enough in the morning that everyone else was up and about regardless of clocks. He would be missed, especially by Troubadour. Without wasting another second, he quite forgot about being tired and hurried to wash and dress, and so hastily that he did not look quite as neat and tidy as he usually did by the end of it. Not terrible, you understand, but just not Pompadour-like enough.

As he had sneaked to his office with a strong cup of coffee and a croissant the only one to notice him fully was Troubadour who raised a brow curiously at his entrance.

"Good morning, Troubadour," he said, forcing a smile that was very nearly convincing despite how he still obviously looked as though he had come in haste.

Now that he was in the office, he walked very casually as he closed the door behind him.

Troubadour glanced at the closed door, which was usually left open at least a crack for airflow, but he made no other mention of it aside from that glance. In fact he did not move much at all as Pompadour made his way regally to his desk to have his coffee and croissant before work. The brows over Troubadour's eyes lowered deep behind his glasses, which glinted keenly as his head followed his superior's movements, but otherwise he still did not move from where he stood.

"It nearly is the _day_," said Pompadour promptly. "And I'd hate to have this letter unfinished before we move on. They found something to replace the salad dressing, I hope, and that the victory float's being too large to fit nicely over that corner curb has been remedied in the way that His Majesty felt it best?"

As Pompadour glanced briefly up with a flicker of his eyes over at Troubadour, Troubadour gave a slow and solemn nod. There was another flicker in Pompadour's eyes then as he returned importantly to his coffee— that of irritation. It quickly passed. It had to as it was interrupted by a spasm of pain obvious on his face no matter how quickly he tried to hide it. It passed quickly too, but Troubadour was not fooled in the least.

How he managed to keep up his façade in front of everyone else was a feat in itself. Only because everyone else was so busy with the affairs of the Victory Celebrations was he able to accomplish it at all. Even King Babar, who was usually pretty careful about his friends and close servants, had become quite occupied with how he was going to spend the day with Celeste whenever he was not needed ceremonially for the celebrations, and Zephir had been around more than usual; he was enough to distract anyone from things. As for Cornelius, for the most part Pompadour had discretely avoided having himself alone with him and Troubadour together as much as possible except when they were out in Celesteville yesterday. He had, by fortune or not, not run into Cornelius this morning so far at all.

"So, I'll have you sit here once I'm finished with breakfast," said Pompadour closing his eyes and putting his forefeet together in a calculative manner, "and then we'll finish it up. I trust we should finish the letter within the hour now that we know exactly what we want to say for the closing statements."

Troubadour rolled his eyes, but Pompadour did not seem to notice except that he held himself prouder and hardly opened his pompous eyes enough to get his coffee and croissant to his mouth without dropping or spilling anything. By the end of it, Troubadour stepped neatly off of the carpet and was tapping his shoe upon the crisp floor, so that Pompadour would be sure to hear the clacking.

Still Pompadour pretended not to notice.

Once his breakfast things were cleared away and Troubadour was seated in the seat, Pompadour read the last bit of the letter where he had left off, and then handed it back to Troubadour.

"There's a typo at the bottom there," said Pompadour lightly. "That should be 'fraught' not 'wrought'."

As Pompadour turned to begin his dictation, Troubadour shook with irritation and scowled horribly, but he knew just how to get Pompadour's attention. He tossed what was one of the best quill pens in the palace over his shoulder. It clattered onto the floor. When Pompadour swiveled around at him with a gasp Troubadour crossed his arms.

"Is there a _problem_, Troubadour?" Pompadour demanded, his forefeet were trembling slightly, and Troubadour's eyes rested on them instead of on Pompadour's face.

Pompadour held them firmly to his sides and they stopped. Pain and nausea swam over his head, and when he recovered it was only to find Troubadour holding up the Doctor's note in his forefeet and pointing to it emphatically with his trunk, specifically at the part about calling him if anything strange happened.

"Nothing strange has happened," said Pompadour. "It just took a couple days to fully recuperate from my illness, but I trust after a good night's sleep that I will be in top form today."

Troubadour pointed to the typo in the letter and glared angrily at his superior.

"You can't blame me for your mistakes," said Pompadour haughtily. "Please, do kindly pick up that good pen off of the floor and use it civilly so we can continue."

Although burning with impatience, Troubadour obeyed. Jumping from his chair, he went to retrieve the pen and brought it back with him to the desk, but he made it quite clear how he was unhappy about it. Pompadour made it evident that he did not care. Once Troubadour was situated, scowl or not, Pompadour felt that everything was in order enough to proceed.

"Just write everything exactly as I put it," said Pompadour. "We don't have time for anymore mistakes."

Troubadour made a face but nodded appropriately.

Pompadour nodded in return and cleared his throat.

It was the same as yesterday with all the pauses and the bouts of illness and missteps in his pacing about. The only difference was that it was more difficult for Pompadour to ignore, but he told himself severely that it was all because he had not had a fitful sleep as he had fallen asleep at his desk for so long. That had to be it. He was not going to believe anything different.

Tomorrow would be better. It had to be better.

Tomorrow was the day before the Victory Parade itself!

"Ah, just in time to have it read to His Majesty before lunch," said Pompadour. "Then we shall have it copied and signed and one will be sent to Lord Rataxes forthwith while the other shall await publication for anyone else's need in case Lord Rataxes decides to do away with his. But you know, of course, that what Basil has begun is only the beginning. They intend to fight with words, Troubadour, and I shall give them a fight they shall never forget!"

Troubadour winced.

"Anything to add about it, Troubadour?"

Troubadour shook his head.

"Then shall we proceed to the king's hall?"

Troubadour nodded and after hopping from his seat, he followed Pompadour out the door.

* * *

Much to Pompadour's displeasure there were a few other typos besides the first one that Troubadour had written. It was not that big of a deal, but it was irritating and slightly interrupted the flow of his words as he corrected those mistakes and proudly read the letter to Babar who tried very hard to listen even if his mind was lingering elsewhere. No one seemed to notice a slight pause here and there as Pompadour worded what he saw correctly from those mistakes on the page, which honestly he should have noticed himself the evening before even if they had been Troubadour's mistakes.

He did a decent job of making those pauses so decorous anyway that they seemed to be deliberate points of emphasis. Some of those points were a bit strange, but no one was going to question Pompadour about it, though the words themselves seemed to be just a touch more roundabout than usual— just a touch.

Only Troubadour eyed him with scrutiny as he noted every pause and every flinch. Pompadour now looked as neat and tidy as he usually did, but his voice was beginning to lose a bit of its strength as he reached the end of the part he had looked over the night before and began where he had started today.

Pompadour suddenly swallowed with difficulty and blinked slowly as he resituated his usually so stable feet. This did make King Babar look at him suddenly from the wall he had been staring at, but Pompadour hid it all as best as he could with a clearing of his throat before continuing.

"'…in conclusion," said Pompadour, which really meant a few more good paragraphs, "'it is not possible for anything decision which may or may not be made —'"

Cornelius gasped in surprise.

"—regarding Lord Rataxes' illegitimate objections to—"

Pompadour stopped and looked back at the letter, murmuring in alarm, "'…any_thing_ decision…'!" And he continued murmuring to himself, "'….to the Victory Parade and the festivities there_fore _until _all of the evidence or accusation_ are put forth in—"

"Is something wrong, Pompadour?" asked Babar.

"'_Wrong'_?" said Pompadour pulling the scroll down from his face in such a panic that he fumbled with it in his forefeet and would have dropped it if he had not caught it with his trunk.

Then he glowered almost savagely at Troubadour for a few seconds.

Troubadour only nodded back to him.

"Not at all, Sire!" said Pompadour then returning with closed eyes to the king. "It was only a mistake in the document."

Babar laughed. "A mistake? Everyone makes mistakes."

"Well, it is true that between the two of them, Pompadour and Troubadour usually don't have any mistakes by the time they have the documents court-ready," said Cornelius thoughtfully.

Babar laughed just a little more. "Well, I'm not going to believe that Pompadour has never made a mistake like that before. He's a person just as much as everyone else." But he did grow serious suddenly as he added, "That's not worth calling a doctor about if that's what you're all worried about."

"No, not indeed, Sire!" said Pompadour with a bow and a smile, but he was still rather occupied with the number of mistakes in the document; nor could he hide his much frazzled state behind a proud smile for long.

"It's not that big of a deal," said Babar.

"Oh, yes, it is, Sire!" said Pompadour despite himself. "If such a mistake were to be sent abroad it would reflect so poorly upon the Elephant Court that no one in all the Jungle would take it seriously as a document so much so that it will have been better not to have had it sent at all! To remedy such a mistake could take years!"

Babar made a face.

"Well, then just fix it now that you found it," he said with a shrug. "If you're worried about it have Cornelius read it before you send it out. Maybe a third pair of eyes would help."

"A fine suggestion, Sire," said Pompadour regally but in such a manner that Babar knew he did not like the suggestion and was only trying to please him.

With a sigh, Babar blinked up at the ceiling wearily.

Troubadour crossed his arms and glanced up at Pompadour. When Pompadour glanced his way Troubadour lifted his trunk in such a way as to imply that if he had something to tell the king about his predicament further now was an excellent opportunity. Pompadour only looked away haughtily; though he shook slightly in the knees with instability. He felt very ill, very hot, and very irritated.

"Pompadour?" asked Cornelius adjusting his glasses a little and everyone noticed now how pallid Pompadour suddenly became in the face.

Babar looked at him himself with a frown.

But Pompadour, rolling up the scroll, said suddenly quite pompously, "I will look it over myself. Do forgive my, Sire! Perhaps after lunch we will be able to conclude this matter if we squeeze it into your already tight schedule for today, but tomorrow will be busier still with the final preparation for the festivities. I would hate for this to be over your head during the day of the parade."

"Well, it's not really that big of a deal," said Babar. "Rataxes can say whatever he wants about the parade. We know what it means to us and that's all that matters, right?"

"Of course, Sire," said Pompadour, "though it would be an entirely different matter if we were to invite outsiders to the festivities."

Babar blinked. "What?"

Without explaining, Pompadour was already out of the room unable to answer anyway with his mind so occupied with the document held in front of his face again as he went.


	3. Chapter 3

JMJ

**Chapter Three**

After a bow, Troubadour also left the chamber scurrying through the partly open doorway and thus leaving King Babar and Cornelius in a moment in silence.

"Cornelius, do you think there really is something wrong with Pompadour?" asked Babar. "Or do you think he's just over-worrying about being sick so close to the day of the parade? I mean maybe we should call the Doctor and have him reassure Pompadour or something. I know he gets easily worked up about things, but that was a little weird, don't you think?"

Cornelius shook his head.

"Perhaps a little bit," said Cornelius, "but I believe if anything is wrong, it's mostly that he doesn't wish to upset you. After all, I've known him for a long, and I'm sure if he really did need a doctor he would call him himself."

"That's what I would think too, but all the same, it seems more like he's hiding something than that he's worried," said Babar with a shrug. "He's just not acting like himself somehow and he does look pretty worn out."

"He could be overworking himself a little bit," said Cornelius, "he's had to catch up quickly since his leave of absence, and he's been planning for the parade for months before_ I_ could start putting my mind to it."

"All the same, I think we should have him call the Doctor," said Babar firmly.

"I'd hate to hurt his pride needlessly," said Cornelius. "Pompadour is sensitive that way, especially about you concerning yourself about our personal affairs. We're here to serve _you_, after all. Perhaps I will go talk to him myself in private in an opportune moment."

Babar nodded. "Yes, you should do that as soon as you can."

"I'm sure he'll confide in me if there's something troubling him that we don't know about."

"I hope so," said Babar. "He doesn't have to be perfect all the time. No one ever expects him to be."

"I've often told him that he doesn't have to be so uptight, Babar, but I think it's just in his way. _He_ expects himself to be perfect. I don't think he can help it. He always was like that even before Celesteville, and now with Celesteville giving him so much purpose, his passion and love for it and of serving you expounds from him in such a way that it gets me wound up even when I can barely catch up with him, and it certainly wears _me_ out when he does that."

Babar looked at Cornelius thoughtfully. He had not considered it deeply before, but he knew that in a sense, Cornelius was a sort of father-figure for Pompadour just as much as Cornelius was a sort of grandfatherly figure for himself. They were all from the same herd anyway so it was not that difficult to understand with Cornelius being the kind-hearted person that he had always been within the herd taking care of those who needed help.

He supposed that partly why he had never thought of it though, was not because of Cornelius, but because as much as had always considered Pompadour part of his family, Babar just realized that he had always considered Pompadour as just Pompadour and nearly an unassailable force just as much as Pompadour had wished him to believe. That bothered Babar just a little.

He shook his head and then said with a shrug, "He almost acts like he's trying to hide the fact that he _is_ sick so that he can continue working, especially since it _is_ the Victory Parade, and he doesn't want us to worry just like you said."

Cornelius chuckled. "Pompadour may be very stubborn at times, but I'm sure he wouldn't go so far as to deceive everyone about something seriously being wrong with him. He'd want to get well so that he was properly fit for duty not working unfit. That just would not be proper. I'm sure there's nothing to worry too much about."

* * *

"Now let me see…" mused Pompadour glowering at the paper.

Rereading the whole thing himself, he realized that not only were there typos but there were such run-on sentences and roundabout phrases that even he was getting a headache from it in the part that they had just written today. Or maybe he was just too sick and dizzy already to deal with it. He closed his eyes on the penmanship before him swaying like boats pulling freight over unpleasantly rolling waves. He moaned bitterly as he let his head fall into his forefeet.

There came a sudden knock on the door, and Troubadour slipped in through the crack of it much to Pompadour's annoyance, but he hunkered over the paper with his pen in his trunk determined not to be bothered about him. Troubadour was equally as determined to bother about Pompadour as Pompadour was not to be bothered.

Pushing another chair over to the desk, he quickly climbed into it and lifted up the Doctor's note as he had before so many times since Pompadour's return from his absence.

"What you did was completely uncalled for," retorted Pompadour then. "Deliberately leaving in every vocal mistake of mine and added in sloppily some of your own to make it worse! Completely unprofessional, Troubadour. Shameful. Just disgraceful!"

Troubadour shook his head and pointed to his superior to say quite plainly that all the mistakes were Pompadour's and that everything he wrote was exactly as Pompadour had said and that he did these things out of no real malice but for his own benefit. By the look on his face, though it was littered with anger, it was also easy enough to see that his anger was only frustration about Pompadour being so in denial. Standing upright in his chair he scowled as hard as he could to show that he was appalled by Pompadour's behavior and that he would not have in a million years thought him capable of such pig-headed nonsense as avoiding seeing a doctor when one had the need.

It flustered poor Troubadour more than ever when Pompadour held his head away with such snobbishness and such disdain and continue over his work as before.

Troubadour held up a mirror and forced Pompadour to see the dark lines under his eyes and the red veins in them. Pompadour only closed them. He pointed to his posture, which gave Pompadour a start, but he quickly fixed it by seating himself more upright and stiffly. He motioned to Pompadour's shaky forefeet and pointed to the letter again in front of Pompadour and at all his mistakes.

Pompadour was not himself, Troubadour was obviously trying to convey, but as he became more and more animated about it even going so far as to climb right up onto the desk to get his attention, at last Pompadour had an excuse to draw the line. Any worry that might have started to accumulate on his brow suddenly vanished.

"Do you mind, Troubadour!" Pompadour said. "Having shoes on the furniture is terrible form unless it is made specifically for that purpose. A desktop is certainly not one of those exceptions!"

With that Pompadour promptly plucked him off of the desk and plopped him onto the floor. This left the tiny secretary standing there staring in completely blank disbelief for some moments as Pompadour returned to the desk as though nothing had happened.

Then he scowled darkly.

Pulling open a drawer he got himself a sheet of paper and a pen and some ink. He quickly reseated himself in his chair and vigorously wrote in his finest penmanship before handing it to Pompadour with chest held high and a magnificent pout. Small and mute Troubadour may have been but his will was steel.

Pompadour frowned at Troubadour briefly but consented to taking the paper. It was not every day that Troubadour resorted to writing down what he wished to say rather than expressing himself in his usual pantomime matter. Curiosity, if nothing else, compelled Pompadour to read it.

_You, Sir_, it read, _are a shamefully puffed-up, irrational and powder-headed dweeb!_

Pompadour was aghast.

"'_Dweeb_!'" he squeaked in absolute horror as though he had been stabbed.

No one had ever called him that before, but Troubadour nodded to say that he wrote exactly how he felt it was. He crossed his arms to seal it. In fact, when all Pompadour did was cross his arms and turn away haughtily as he threw the paper into the trash can under the desk, Troubadour took another sheet of paper and wrote again more furiously than before while Pompadour himself was still recovering from the first one entirely. He was just opening his mouth to speak when Troubadour shoved his new sheet of paper into his face.

It read: _I can't believe your behavior and neither could anyone else if they knew. If you wish to continue this way that's your problem from now on not mine. As Minister of Protocol you are a hypocrite as it is standard protocol for a worker of any sort in all of Elephantland to call in sick if one is sick and to see one's doctor if need be. You don't care about anything or anyone but your own foppish, self-designated position! _

Again Pompadour was shocked. This was worse than name calling and struck far deeper than his foppish exterior. Before he fully knew what he was saying he glared at Troubadour in such a way that made Troubadour a tad uncomfortable. The words came out somewhat chillingly in its calmness and near casualness as Pompadour spoke, "If that's the way you feel, Troubadour…"

He turned away and closed his eyes before adding, "You're free to leave and go about other business. I'm sure there are plenty of _other_ things you need to get done before the festivities."

Troubadour lowered his head to the floor a moment.

Then he hopped out of his chair.

That had not gone at all the way he had planned, and he found himself feeling guiltier than he thought he would have for writing such terrible things, especially that part about him not caring about anyone, which Troubadour knew was not at all true. He looked back up at Pompadour briefly as his superior went about in his fruitless pursuit to fix his letter.

He remained stubborn.

Well, if that was the case then Troubadour would remain stubborn too and with a haughty huff he lifted his trunk straight up and marched away.

"_Hmph_!" Pompadour said when Troubadour shut the door.

#

Later that day when Pompadour felt he had edited the letter sufficiently, he was again in the king's hall and he read it before King Babar. This time, he noticed that Babar was paying more attention than last time; though he knew it was more to him than to his letter, which unnerved him a little. It showed through a dignified pout in his lower lip in between speaking. He held his eyes to the letter though and pretended otherwise not to notice.

When he was finished however Babar only asked, "Where's Troubadour?"

"He has other matters to attend to, Sire," said Pompadour simply as he rolled up the document. "After all tomorrow will be too late for anything but preparing the palace for the day."

"Quite right," said Cornelius, but he was staring strangely at Pompadour all the same.

"Well, as far as I could tell, the letter sounded alright to me," said Babar.

"Then all it needs is your royal signature and seal, Sire," Pompadour said with a smile and he set it before the king while doing everything in his power to remain composed and cheerful like he usually was.

Babar hesitated but took the pen and signed it before they sealed it with the royal seal to be sent out.

"Is there anything else you require, Your Majesty?" asked Pompadour.

"Not right now, Pompadour, thank you," said Babar.

Pompadour bowed regally and withdrew, though it was not long after he left that Babar nodded to Cornelius to follow after him.

"Oh, yes, that's right," said Cornelius, and with a nod in return he did as bidden.

Even ill Pompadour had covered more ground than Cornelius had expected, but he managed to catch him politely enough at the top of the grand staircase where no servant or guard was around.

"Ah, Pompadour!" Cornelius called cheerfully.

Pompadour swallowed hard, trying to will the nausea down before turning to Cornelius with a forced smile, which was not nearly as convincing as the ones he had shown to Babar.

"Yes, Cornelius?" said Pompadour.

"We've been a bit concerned about you, Pompadour," said Cornelius in his usual gentle but straightforward approach once they were within confidential speaking distance.

"Ah, yes, I have noticed it," said Pompadour sounding unconcerned as he began his descent down the steps.

Cornelius followed; though going down the steps would make their conversation less confidential as it would echo so. It could not be helped.

"You know that King Babar is concerned that you're more ill than you're letting on," Cornelius went on, "and you must admit that you have been acting strangely lately— well, not yourself, you know. Less yourself than more yourself as time goes on, if you know what I mean."

They were walking side by side now, and Pompadour's strides were rather stiff as he noted Cornelius taking in his appearance and how even these stairs strained him more than they should have.

Clearing his throat, Pompadour found enough strength to stop any unsteadiness and to ignore any pain or ache. He looked quite nearly himself as he closed his eyes regally and said, "I appreciate that His Majesty is concerned, but as I've already said before, it simply takes time for one to recuperate from such an illness. I was actually just going now to relax with a cup of herbal tea and medicine, but being a little tired certainly does not qualify as needing a doctor, wouldn't you agree, Cornelius?"

"Well…" said Cornelius who always had had a bit of difficulty arguing with Pompadour— ever since he had been given his element in Celesteville anyway, as he always had a strong argument and always said it with such confidence.

Cornelius shook his head as they came to the bottom of the stairs and tapped his chin with a forefoot thoughtfully.

"Well, I suppose not," said Cornelius as he sorted through all that his colleague had said, "but all the same, are you sure you wouldn't want to have the Doctor check on you just to, well… put His Majesty at ease if nothing else?"

"With the Doctor being still uncertain about what the plant is and seeing as how he could not say what would happen either way, I don't see how it would put anyone at ease, especially since everyone is so busy with the festivities. Perhaps after the Victory Parade, if His Majesty still feels it necessary by then and everyone, including myself, has had a chance to relax, for a day, I will see him then. I still haven't even run out of the medicine prescribed to me."

He turned away. Though, right before he stepped too far, he turned again abruptly and added, "Besides, Cornelius, you have been rather tired lately yourself preparing for such an important anniversary as the victory over the slavery of our people and avoiding war _and_ coming up with the perfect name for the annual parade. I'm sure you've seen the stressed state of the cook, the decorators, the director of the march, Madame Melodie the writer of the song…?"

"Why, yes, I…have," said Cornelius, but when he had finished, Pompadour had already excused himself and went his way, slipping out of Cornelius' verbal grasp with the ease of an eel.

This left Cornelius to stand there in the middle of the hall trying to decide what had just happened.


	4. Chapter 4

JMJ

Chapter Four

For the rest of the day everything remained quite focused on the events of the Victory Parade. Pompadour maintained well enough to not have anyone bring up his state of health to him anymore, for he was only seen when bringing up business, except at supper, but here everyone was much too in wonder at the obvious sudden conflict between Pompadour and Troubadour. They did not look at each other much and when they did it was only to huff with annoyance.

When Pompadour wanted something in front of Troubadour, he did not face him as he said very stiffly, "Dear Troubadour, would you be so kind as to pass the salad?"

Haughtily, Troubadour lifted up his trunk and passed it just as stiffly.

Cornelius and Babar looked at each other with raised brows and squints.

"Is something wrong?" Babar demanded when such behavior continued.

"Oh, nothing serious, Sire," said Pompadour lightly, "just a professional disagreement is all, but we will work it out between ourselves soon enough."

Babar sighed with obvious annoyance.

"Well, whatever it is, I hope it gets resolved soon," said Cornelius, "it is admittedly making supper rather uncomfortable."

"I apologize," said Pompadour. "We shall try to keep our differences in the work place only as is only proper. Isn't that right, Troubadour?"

Troubadour paused but nodded in defeat.

"Good," said Babar still a tad doubtfully.

After that Pompadour began to act fairly normal to Troubadour. Although Troubadour eased a little too, he looked unhappier the less annoyed he looked.

* * *

That night Pompadour took himself to bed at a proper time and woke up at an equally proper time. For the first time since he had opened that parcel with that horrible plant, he felt quite normal once he had a little breakfast and coffee. As today was all the physical preparations for the palace, all he had to do was to go about and monitor everything and report it to the king. That made it easy. A little tremor here or there was nothing to bother about. A little nausea was usually fixed with medicine or a cup of chamomile, and weakness could be hid in a coffee break.

Because, yes, although today provided excellent opportunity not to be noticed, by late morning he felt just as bad as he had the day before. In fact in some ways he felt worse. All the tingling and fuzzing up of his body was quite distracting, but his coming and going and even going up to his room to rest for a few moments was nothing anyone could notice, except maybe Troubadour.

He was following him around a lot of the time with parchment and pen to write down anything anyone in the palace answered to Pompadour's questions and any comments that Pompadour wished to place before the king. Still Troubadour did not look at Pompadour often and neither did Pompadour look back at him. The awkwardness of it irked the both of them. Much of the staff looked after them rather confused.

Cornelius was enough to break the tension however as he came to join them on and off, and King Babar was out and about in town more than at the palace. It made it difficult for Pompadour to find him when he felt it time to give him an update. It was just as well, because he had to check on the parade itself anyway.

In front of Babar, Pompadour and Troubadour were on their best behavior and acting as normal as they could. Thankfully Babar was too distracted by everything else that he did not notice much or did not have the time to bring it up, anyway, much to Pompadour's satisfaction.

The anticipation and joy of most people in the town including Babar and his friends made Pompadour and Troubadour quite forget to be haughty with each other.

Though, a strange thought did occur to Pompadour as he was climbing into his car and a wave of nausea passed through.

_If it truly is inevitable and my illness will grow worse and it ends up terminal at least I can make the anniversary worth something. The king doesn't deserve to lose anyone else, but if I work until I drop as Troubadour suggests, then so be it. It will be better than slowly dwindling away in bed._

It surprised him afterwards that he had been thinking in such a direction at all. No one could say anything was terminal. The Doctor had said something about permanent damage not death. Admittedly permanent damage sounded almost as horrifying as death, but he was still determined that neither of these things would happen to him. He would get through this even if had to take a two week vacation after the Victory Parade.

When the car stopped in front of the palace he turned to Troubadour and took off his driving gear.

"Don't let's go on like this, Troubadour," he said calmly placing his forefeet in his lap, "I want you to know that I fully intend to recuperate after tomorrow." He lowered his head rather wearily. "I promise that I will call the Doctor then."

Troubadour looked at him with suspicion but nodded.

"So we will both be able to enjoy the festivities tomorrow, yes?" asked Pompadour. "And if I don't do something about it the day after tomorrow you have my full permission to call the Doctor yourself— oh, with whomever you wish to speak on your behalf, of course."

Troubadour raised a brow.

"But you must promise that not under any circumstances will you bring it up tomorrow."

Troubadour looked away with a sort of roll of his eyes, but nodded.

"Right, thank you, Troubadour," said Pompadour then with a cheerful smile, and he shook his trunk by the trunk before he left the car. "I'm glad we've settled this. It's no good friends being on bad terms for simply worrying about one another."

Troubadour made a face, but Pompadour did not see it.

* * *

The palace was positively brimming with golden sunlight the next morning. Decorations glistened like forgotten treasure making the palace look even more splendid than it usually did, and the cleanliness could be smelt as a pristine floral scent that was different from an ordinary day as floral arrangements from downstairs filled the air. When one got to the staircase the aroma from the kitchens mingled in absolutely delightfully.

Waking from a rough night after a supper in which nothing had agreed with him, Pompadour soaked in everything around him as though hoping to catch its vitality for himself. It seemed to work too, for his pace quickened and smile became quite genuine. It was always a relaxing thing to see one's hard work go right. Servants went here and there bustling a little bit with final preparations, but even they went about their business so promptly and cheerfully that they were hardly a bother.

What was a bother was after reaching the last step of the staircase, hearing Cornelius around the corner of the next corridor saying to Troubadour, "You haven't seen Pompadour around have you?"

After a pause which surely was a shake of Troubadour's head, Cornelius' voice went on, "I suppose he slept in again. Probably for the best, after all, but I do hope he hasn't worked himself to the bone so as to not be able to enjoy what he's been working for all this—"

"Ah, Cornelius! Troubadour!" Pompadour interrupted turning the corner to where the pair stood.

He downright burst around the floral arrangement just at the corner so that his ornamental cane nearly smacked the edge of it leaving a close save of wind to blow the flower heads a little still attached to their stems. They almost appeared to gasp and then sigh in relief.

"What a wonderful morning, isn't it?" said Pompadour quickly trying to hide the event.

He beamed almost cheekily as he forced his way in between his two colleagues.

"Why, yes it is," said Cornelius looking rather disoriented.

"The parade is surely going to go on beautifully along with all the festivities!" said Pompadour. "So far I don't see a thing out of place for a wonderful day for the citizens of Celesteville and all of Elephant-dom. The only day possibly more important than the day of the Victory Parade is the anniversary of the crowning of His Majesty which led to the freedom of all the Jungle from the fear and tyranny of the Hunter!"

But even that was celebrated with less prep.

"I'm glad you're in such fine spirits today, Pompadour!" Cornelius chuckled. "I suppose this means you've gotten well just in time for the festivities!"

Beneath the both of them, Troubadour shook his head with annoyance and lowered his eyes to the ground.

"Well, maybe not quite, but close enough to be able to enjoy today," said Pompadour smugly and leaning on his cane perhaps for a little too much support.

Troubadour noticed as Pompadour ignored how the cane groaned under his weight; he was rather small and slim as elephants go, but the cane still was more of an ornament than a real walking stick

"And how is His Majesty?" asked Pompadour.

"I was just going to see how he was getting on myself," said Cornelius taking out a pocket watch. "Breakfast is early, you know, and he'll miss it if he doesn't come down now. The carriage is already ready and waiting."

"Then let us go and fetch him together," said Pompadour, and that is exactly what they did.

Babar still had not gotten used to being ushered about on special occasions. Perhaps he never would get used to it. He went about with his advisors looking rather wide-eyed and flurried with how Pompadour and Cornelius fussed more than the servants to his early breakfast and beyond and reminding him of everything he had to do that day.

"But then, of course, after lunch you will have time to be with your friends," said Cornelius kindly.

"But only for no more than a half hour, not counting traveling about, Cornelius," Pompadour pressed leaning still heavily upon his cane but looking quite regal before they climbed into the carriage, "before we must begin entertaining the Crocodiles and the Monkeys who will arrive just in time for the parade— the only foreign guests seeing as they assisted in the events."

"Yes, yes, quite right," agreed Cornelius.

"Well, I consider Croc and his Crocodiles to be my friend too, and the Monkeys are all Zephir's family from the Jungle," said Babar, "and they'll want to see Celeste and Arthur anyway and Zephir, of course."

"Ah, good! Then at the dinner this evening and for the fireworks afterwards, there will be ample opportunity for your own entertainment as well, Sire," Pompadour was also quick to add. "After all, this entire day is devoted to your deeds and in more than simply being our king."

"Pompadour is right, Babar," said Cornelius. "You've been our hero more than once, and everyone including Pompadour and myself thank you for it more than you can know."

"And this day more than any other should be devoted to your happiness, Sire," said Pompadour.

Babar perked up from the blank face he usually bore when Cornelius and Pompadour talked over him. Although just a touch bashfully Babar smiled. Pompadour had said something similar on his crowning anniversary and on his birthday. But he was mostly pleased at the moment with the thought that he could have Celeste as the guest of honor at the dinner being his constant companion in the adventure and the one who had brought the problem with Rataxes to everyone's attention.

"Thank you," he said. "I know all you do is to support me and I might not always be as appreciative of it as I should be, but—"

"Oh, think nothing of it!" Cornelius said.

"Perish the thought that you feel the need to apologize for anything," Pompadour sniffed. "We are only your devoted servants, Sire!"

"Of course, we understand that sometimes getting used to being the king can be overwhelming," said Cornelius.

"But you've more than earned it," said Pompadour.

"Not just your courage and your cunning."

"But how in the end, no matter what obstacles get in your way for a time, you always put your people's needs above your own."

Babar sighed, obviously thinking they were overdoing it just a little.

"We would have been forced to surrender as Rataxes' main attribute is his army and only attribute, really, that exceeds ours," said Pompadour. "If it had not been for your cleverness, Sire, we'd've been reduced to barbarism if there were any free elephants left at all."

As much as Babar appreciated the well-meant words of his good advisors he was very pleased to have Madame join them before long, and Pompadour nodded.

_As it all should be_, he thought.

Though as an afterthought to everything else they had been saying he suddenly added again, "Arthur is ready for the horn, I hope. Last I heard from him he was saying something about possibly being late again."

Babar laughed. "Last I heard from him, he was gunna make sure he wasn't."

"Ah, very good then," said Cornelius. "See, everything's smoother than we hoped, Pompadour."

Pompadour had only brought it up at all to try to hide the furrow in his brow from a sudden painfully buzzing in his head. Now Pompadour only smiled at Cornelius and hoped he did not look to weary, but no one seemed to notice.

For the rest of the day everything went quite well and even Pompadour enjoyed himself when pain or nausea did not become too overwhelming.

And the parade?

Well, it was just as glorious as Pompadour had hoped. It went through town exactly how he had pictured it— except for the buzzing in his head provoked more by the marching band.

So the day was not perfect for him. It at least was perfect for Celesteville and its king!

The only one not enjoying the day at all was Troubadour. All he did most of the day was debate with himself about whether he should mention something about Pompadour despite his promise. He could see past most of his cheery façade. He just could. He was not fooling him.

But it was too late. It was the day of the victory celebrations. Even the Doctor would not be taking in patients unless it was an emergency, but then Pompadour did seem better than yesterday.

Maybe everything would be alright. Maybe Pompadour would simply slide through today and call the Doctor tomorrow and everything would turn out just as Pompadour hoped. Somehow Troubadour could not get himself to believe that fully even when supper was announced without incident.

* * *

A Monkey pulled at her sleeves uncomfortably.

"So constricting!" she complained. "How does Zephir do it every day?"

"Yeah, Zephir," said another Monkey.

Turning to Zephir smiling smugly in his tux, this particular Monkey pulled at his collar as though about to gag and stuck out his tongue before saying, "This was one of the reasons why we didn't join you in Celesteville in the first place."

"Ah, it's all just a matter of getting used to it unless you're just going to admit that no one does it quite like me," said Zephir.

"Oh, get out!" the Monkeys laughed.

"So maybe only someone as skilled as me can climb a tree with ease in a sweater and sneakers without even my hat falling off," said Zephir.

"At least we know your smugness is still the same," said the Monkey who had spoken first, but she was only teasing. "And you haven't forgotten your roots being among such high society."

They were family, after all, and were glad to see their relative again at such a party.

"_Meh_," said Zephir weaving his hand aside. "Lucile, how can you consider them high society when they can barely climb a tree."

Lucile made a face and then all the Monkeys started giggling and Babar, Arthur and Celeste laughed too.

"Oh, that's bad, Zephir!" teased Celeste grinning from ear to ear.

"Besides, I climbed trees before," protested Arthur with a smirk.

"Well, you Monkeys should consider yourselves fortunate that you can get a suit on at all without someone to help ya with short arms and a long body like mine! Ha! I don't know how the Elephants do it without digits," said Croc adjusting his bowtie in mock pompousness. "But let's not forget why we're all dressed up in the first place!"

He gave the king a hearty pat on the shoulder that might have been considered out of place normally.

The Crocodiles were a boisterous group, but they tried their best to behave as was appropriate at such a palace as King Babar's just as much as the Monkeys. There was much hearty laughter from the Crocodiles, and the Monkeys were always bopping and hopping about rather fidgety in between their chattering merrily.

The monkeys continued to tease Zephir but he basked in the attention with pride.

It was such a boisterous party compared with most despite the guests trying as hard as they could that it was a little much for those accustomed to a quieter lifestyle, but even at the other side of the table where Cornelius, Troubadour, and Pompadour sat with those other quieter guests everyone was very pleased to see Babar so happy.

"Everything went exactly according to plan and better," muttered Cornelius thoughtfully, but Pompadour admittedly had barely heard him as his appetite was failing fast and the thought of lifting a fork to his mouth was beginning to make him feel sicker than ever.

He might have disagreed with Cornelius about the guests if he had been himself, but as it was, he noticed them less than he noticed Cornelius.

His entire body was beginning to feel fuzzed and rather numb. Beneath the table his knees shook slightly, and he swallowed with difficulty upon his dry throat before shaking his head and turning to Cornelius. Even his breath was a little shaky. It was becoming difficult to fight the urge to let his posture sink. It had ever so slightly stooped despite his best efforts. He could feel some eyes now and then looking in his direction, and he thought for sure it was the posture that had been inducing those double-takes.

It irritated him enough to clear his throat and speak to Cornelius.

"Excuse me, what were you saying, Cornelius?" he cracked a little squeakier than could be called normal for him even in his odder moods.

Wearily he allowed his head to face his plate after wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

With eyes still on Babar a moment, Cornelius said with a nod, "I was only saying that—"

Cornelius stopped as he took in Pompadour, and he gasped.

"Pompadour, are you alright?" he asked. "You're turning a strange color."

"What?" demanded Pompadour with very little strength as he lifted his head back up and tried to straighten himself.

"Why, you look like you're…"

Cornelius lowered his voice and leaned a little closer so he could say more confidentially, "You look like you're about to vomit."

Pompadour laughed, took a sip of his wine as he had been doing in between trying to eat since the meal began, and he shook his head.

"_Vomit_?! No, no, I don't think there's any fear of…"

He voice failed and his forced smile vanished as he stared again at his plate and then closed his eyes. The buzzing became so tremulous that it was like waves of pain pulsing through his veins. His head ached and his muscles tensed. His heart began to pound in his ears. He began to feel very light-headed with not only pain and nausea but a true sense of disorientation worse than any of the dizziness he had felt before. It froze him so that he could only open his eyes again to the food on his plate, which admittedly did make him feel a little like he would vomit.

"Pompadour…?" said Cornelius gravely.

In this gravity of tone Pompadour felt the prosperity and ease of Celesteville strip away from Cornelius, and what filled it in was the return of wild depths in the Jungle and the fear and uncertainty that had overwhelmed the herd when they had been forced to flee their own home to keep everyone else from death that had not already been killed by the Hunter.

Hearing it just as well as Pompadour, Troubadour's head popped up with concern, and he jumped in his seat so that his wig nearly fell off to see how terrible Pompadour looked.

Madame nearer to them than Babar and the rest of his friends also turned to them now.

But Pompadour suddenly was too sick to care about any of them anymore. The lightheadedness at last overcame him. He could no longer hold himself upright. The chair was heavy enough to keep him from falling backwards, but he fell quite easily forwards right into his plate of barely touched food. His wine glass spilled over the table and the glass clinked amidst the gasps.

The last thing he remembered was the king calling out his name in alarm, "_Pompadour_!"

He felt in that cry more than the fear and uncertainty of leaving one's home for some dark place in the Jungle, but a return of grief that he had never wished to return to Babar: to feel the horror of watching someone very close suddenly and cruelly die.


	5. Chapter 5

JMJ

Chapter Five

When consciousness returned, faintly though it was, Pompadour could not help but wonder if the recent events could have all been a nightmare. They seemed so clouded and intertwined with terrible dreams he had been having of the jungle untamed, dark and foreboding, with trumpeting cries and fire and misery and parades too that were nothing at all like the Victory Parade, but the dreams were soon forgotten as there was nothing tangible about them to grasp in the logic of wakefulness. They seeped away like a shadow under light; though the stark memories of reality remained beneath.

Where he was or why or how or anything that had happened between that terrible dinner and now was yet to be seen, but that sudden beeping sound gave him a good idea of the _where_, if nothing else. The hospital.

Fluttering open his weary eyes, he saw that he was right. He was lying in a bed, pulse being monitored and an IV stuck into his arm, and he did not have anything on but a hospital gown— not even his wig! But he sighed feeling very blissful beyond relief to be alive even if he did also feel rather ashamed of himself for letting it come to this. He felt a little better physically too, and he eased again for his body and mind to continue recuperating as it had in his unconscious state in which he had been unable to interfere.

Then the Doctor appeared above him, and Pompadour found that for a few seconds he could not rightly look him in the eyes, but he managed it nonetheless so as to give the Doctor the dignity of having his patient listen to what he had to say. The Doctor smiled a little to see Pompadour's eyes looking at him consciously.

"Are you feeling better, Mr. Pompadour?" he asked.

"Better than I did before I arrived," murmured Pompadour in a voice that cracked. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes calmly before adding, "Dare I ask, how long I've been out, Doctor?"

"Long enough that the king could not stay even though he wished to," said the Doctor gravely. "Two days about. But you should be on the mend now…if you allow yourself to mend properly."

Pompadour sighed. "I understand, Doctor. Really and truly I do."

"We have discovered how to treat the illness," the Doctor added, "so all should go well even if slowly."

"Good," Pompadour said. "Thank you."

"I was also given instructions to tell the king when you're awake, Sir," the Doctor added, "so after a short check up I will go and call him. Do you feel ready for visitors?"

"I feel I probably owe them," said Pompadour.

"But do you physically feel able?"

"Yes, I think I can manage that…honestly," said Pompadour.

The Doctor nodded. "Well, I'll still judge for myself too after the check up."

"Oh," Pompadour sighed with irony and then muttered, "Now no one will trust me again. I wouldn't."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Mr. Pompadour," said the Doctor. "I think trust in you will return soon enough. You're one of His Majesty's most trusted advisors and were considered one of the elders in the old rule despite your young age."

Pompadour snorted but was too fatigued to reply so the Doctor went to work with the check up, and once that was done the Doctor left and a nurse brought the patient some breakfast.

"Oh," moaned Pompadour to the nurse. "I can't believe I let it go this far."

"It may have happened anyway, Sir," said the Nurse.

"But not this badly," said Pompadour. "There's no use trying to comfort me in that regard. I'm sure that it wouldn't have gotten this dire without pushing myself to the brink of destruction. The whole kingdom must know what I've done by now and how worried I made His Majesty. How badly this reflects on the palace and the court!"

"Just calm yourself, Sir, and try to eat your breakfast," the Nurse advised. "Just be thankful that you're alive now and all the signs show that you will be getting better now."

With another sigh, near regal despite his illness, he took to his porridge and soft fruit.

"I _am_ thankful for that, Nurse, I just have to lament a little about the reputation that I've surely tarnished."

* * *

It was not long after breakfast that Babar arrived with Cornelius and Troubadour. When they were announced by the Nurse he had been drifting off to sleep again, but he quickly woke and awaited them.

It did feel somewhat awkward to be so prone before the king without so much as his wig and not in his proper place, but he swallowed it all down for now as best as could even if he did mutter, "I don't think it's altogether proper to be seen this way before the king."

"Unless the king insists and the person is a friend of the king's, Pompadour," said Cornelius with full seriousness, but relief soon broke out on his face and he said, "We're so _glad_ to see you more yourself, again!"

Babar who had already been smiling a little since Pompadour had said such a Pompadour-like thing, without warning simply took the last few steps to hug him, which surprised Pompadour greatly. He was not sure he had ever been hugged by a king before, and at first he stiffened unsure how to respond, but he quickly eased. Wiping a tear from his eye with his trunk, he hugged Babar back.

When Babar pulled back Pompadour looked quite ashamed to see the tears in the boy's eyes.

"Forgive me, Sire, I—"

Firmly, Babar shook his head.

"Not now," he said. "Maybe later. I'm just happy that you're alive."

"Sire."

"The important thing now is for you to get well, Pompadour," Cornelius said. "You gave us all _quite_ a scare."

Pompadour lowered his head down to his bedding sadly.

"But we'll make _sure_ you'll get well this time," said Babar with a smile, and there was just a touch of wryness in that smile. "Even if I have to make sure in person."

"I understand completely if you never trust me again, Sire," said Pompadour trying to look proper. "I take full responsibility for my actions and whatever you deem fit to do with me I fully accept it."

"Well, maybe it'll take a while to trust you with yourself," Babar admitted, "but we'll all trust you in everything else that you do. Once you're well enough to go back to work, anyway."

Pompadour smiled a little sheepishly himself.

"I regret to say that I expect that won't be for a long time, Your Majesty," said Pompadour.

"Probably not," said Babar, "but we'll work back up to it."

"That's right, one step at a time," agreed Cornelius. "The doctor's told us that you should be able to leave the hospital very soon."

Troubadour heartily nodded.

"Thank you," said Pompadour. "Deeply."

"Of course, we're your friends, Pompadour," said Cornelius.

"You're family," said Babar with a nod.

Pompadour beamed.

For a little while longer they talked.

They gave him a present of a good French novel to keep his mind occupied. Though, he would be allowed to go home the next morning it would be a while before he would be out and about doing anything strenuous so he gladly he accepted the book as well as two get well cards signed by not only those present but between the two cards everyone who had been at the dinner had signed. Zephir had signed both. The cards were propped up by his window along with a flower plant from Madame— a good familiar plant, not at all like that strange one that had caused the illness.

By the end of the visit Troubadour wished to stay a few moments longer. Pompadour winced inquiringly, but he waited with patience until Babar and Cornelius had left. Slowly Troubadour went up to him with lowered head and gave him a note.

Without hesitation, Pompadour took it and it read in bold enough letters for Pompadour to make out without his monocle: "'I formally apologize for anything I may have called you or wrote about you that day when you were trying to fix the letter to Rataxes.' Signed, 'Troubadour.'"

Pompadour looked up from the letter, blinked, and then looked back down at Troubadour and shook his head grandly.

"Already forgotten, Troubadour, but you are heartily forgiven. I was being rather pigheaded anyway and a bit selfish, I suppose. You may have overdid it, but you were only trying to get my attention. I'm strong enough to admit that."

Troubadour wiped a silent tear from his eye, which more than told without him speaking out loud that he had thought not long ago that he would never be able to apologize. He had thought Pompadour was going to die.

"There, there, I'm alright now," said Pompadour folding the letter and putting it onto the window ledge with his other things, but when he turned back it was in surprise to see that Troubadour held out in his trunk a familiar wig and, delicately on his forefoot, his monocle.

"Ah! Thank you, Troubadour! How very thoughtful!"

After Pompadour took them and situated them into position, Troubadour nodded happily.

"It's only a shame that you didn't give them to me a little earlier," said Pompadour musing. "I don't think the king even before he was crowned ever saw me without my monocle."

Troubadour shrugged.

Pompadour paused with a frown as a sudden thought occurred to him. "I suppose the letter that was sent really was a disaster without your help… Oh, to think of the shame when Basil reads it. I can picture the shock on his face."

Troubadour shook his head and waved his forefeet.

"What?" asked Pompadour only slightly irritated despite himself.

Promptly, Troubadour pointed to himself, and Pompadour's face softened with realization.

"You _did_ fix it for me."

Troubadour affirmed this with a most professional nod, which made the tail of his wig bounce behind his head.

Then Pompadour grinned quite suddenly overwhelmed with the emotion of gratitude.

"Oh, Troubadour! What would I do without you?"

He wiped another tear from his eye with the end of his trunk then with a small sniffle, and Troubadour patted him kindly as well as he could with how short he was. Pompadour gave him a hug that lifted him briefly off of the floor.

* * *

He had not been alone much at the hospital. Babar came again within those two days of his stay and brought not only Cornelius and Troubadour but Madame and Celeste and sometimes some of his other friends as well. There were never too many visitors at one time so it was never too overwhelming. On the day he returned home he was picked up by only Cornelius, which was alright with him.

Rain began to fall across the Jungle when Pompadour returned to the palace. Gentle though it fell, it held off until he was inside so he did not have to get wet until he took his warm bath and went back to his room with the help of Cornelius and a servant. It was a comforting sort of rain to watch from one's window.

Although normally not very poetic, he had his moments, and he did find it rather an outward symbol of his own release from the stress that had built up that he had not known was there until he had woken up at the hospital. He may not have been one to normally reflect profoundly on a certain events from the past once it was over, but he found himself thinking many things in his own way about the past that had led to this point— not just his past illness and his foolishness about it but more about what he had been fighting so hard to do: make the Victory Parade perfect.

He realized that he had not thought much of the reason for it the entire time he had worked on it even before the parcel with the pens. Not that he did not remember what the parade and festivities were truly for. but he had not given it true, serious thought. After all, what the parade was meant to commemorate was in the end more important than everything that surrounded it. It was as simple as the fact that if there had been no victory over the rhinos there would have been no parade at all. King Babar, Cornelius, Troubadour, and Pompadour himself, and all the other elephants of Elephantland could at that very moment have been locked in a dungeon deep beneath Rataxes' pyramid instead of enjoying continued peace and prosperity in Celesteville and the surrounding villages.

He watched briefly for a moment the water droplets fall from the leaves of the jungle plants growing now so carefully tended around the palace outside his bedroom window. How close the jungle was and how like a pearl the city was within it. How delicate it was when hardly a year had passed after its founding that it had nearly been destroyed by Rataxes in his envy of Babar's success. How very easily all the civilized things from the Other Side could have been turned against them all in the hands of Jungle Citizens as it had been in the hands of the Hunter!

How delicate even the lushness of the green jungle was without the rain. He easily remembered having to put up with it in the old days— how easily he had as long as there was a leafy shelter or a rocky ledge before the luxury of full-headed umbrellas, raincoats, and roofs.

Did he take it all for granted?

These thoughts passed through his mind rather quickly as he sat up in his bed propped up with pillows and wearing his robe and a blanket. A cup of chamomile with honey and some medicine in another sat upon a bed stand beside him. His book lay next to them open to the spot where he had stopped reading.

With a yawn and a shake of his head, he took the medicine first with displeasure, but it was not too strong in taste to not disappear after a few sips of the tea which had been brewed quite strongly.

A queer buzz went through him. It was already less than the buzzing that had been there yesterday, but he was still far from well. After it passed he shrugged and sipped at his tea again before he heard a knock upon the door.

"Yes, who is it?" he called, glancing up at the door.

He had expected it to be Cornelius but was surprised to see the king.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Pompadour.

"Thank you," said Babar coming in then quite cheerfully. "Are you feeling better this morning?"

"Oh, much better, Sire, thank you."

"Good, I just wanted to tell you that we're all going to be here for you now if you need anything."

"Yes, Sire, you did express that quite well already, but thank you," said Pompadour. "You're going to be keeping an eye on me as far as I understand from Cornelius."

"Yes," said Babar. "And we'll make sure that you don't have to think about work at all. Everything will be taken care of. Until the Doctor says you're able you're not even allowed to _think_ about work."

Pompadour winced. "Well—"

"I mean it, Pompadour," said Babar crossing his arms staunchly. "Not a _pen_."

"I understand completely, Sire," said Pompadour. "I only was going to say that I had no plans of any kind for doing anything until my doctor allows it. I've been very foolish, I'm afraid, and I intend to never make the same mistake again. I just feel overwhelmed that you see it fit to personally oversee my care. Cornelius and Troubadour and the servants would see to it well enough, and the Doctor will be checking up on me now and again."

"Well, actually Cornelius and Troubadour will be pretty busy doing your work, even though they'll visit you."

"What about your _own_ duties, Sire?"

Babar shrugged.

"This won't get in the way. I went over it already with Cornelius in a way that you would approve of," he teased. Then he paused and a thought overtook him briefly before returning to Pompadour. "But I have to ask you something."

Fear prickling, Pompadour stiffened and asked, "What is it, Your Majesty?"

"Why did you do it?" asked Babar. "It just doesn't make sense."

"I—" Pompadour said and stopped. "I'm sorry, Sire. Deeply and truly. I know I was wrong and I'll do anything to make amends for it."

"I know, and I forgive you," said Babar, and he shrugged. "Beside, you more than paid for it anyway now, but I just want to know. I mean, you of all people I never would have suspected as somebody who wouldn't listen to the orders of your own doctor. You know every rule in the book and bring up regulations and things that I never even heard of."

Pompadour cleared his throat.

"Well, I did read the collective volumes of True Courtly Protocol— all 37 to be exact and over thrice at least— when I realized what my duty in your service would mean, Sire, but as for the matter at hand… I suppose it just began because I didn't _want_ to be sick, and I lied to myself first before anyone else, but— well, I don't really know, exactly. Things got a little strange for a while. I don't think my mind was at its best anymore than my body. Mostly I just didn't want anyone to make a fuss over me. Even though now everyone's making more of a fuss over me than ever, but… is that a good enough explanation, Sire?"

Pompadour lifted a hopeful brow.

Babar nodded. "Thank you."

"But! Would it be alright, Your Majesty, if I posed a question to you?" asked Pompadour.

"Yes," said Babar.

"Well, then I would just like to ask if you feel it necessary to have the amount of fuss over me that the entire palace is proposing even if I do deserve it in a way?"

"Why yes I do, Pompadour," said Babar throwing his arms around his back in his usual professional stance even if there was a touch of humor in his tone.

Pompadour sighed. "Oh, very well. I accept."

"I know that most of you and Cornelius' fussing over me is only because you care. Even when it starts to bug me and your rules and control seem almost insane, I know you're just trying to make sure I have a good image as king and that everything at the palace runs smoothly and that I grow up to be a better ruler than I am now. I thank you both for that and for never giving up on me and putting up with me when I lose my patience."

"You hardly lose your patience, Sire," said Pompadour staunchly, "even if you do have your moments when your behavior… confuses me, admittedly."

"Well, thank you for everything. I think partly even what you did now was because you didn't want anything to go wrong…for me."

"Yes, well, but of _course_, Sire! I mean, after all, as impressive and clever as you are, you're a child in the end as well as the king," said Pompadour. He paused. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, for saying so."

Babar laughed.

"I know," he said. "You don't have to apologize for _that_. That's why I'm thanking you. I wouldn't be able to do what I do without you and Cornelius and Madame or anyone who supports me, but now I'm going to help _you_, and so is everyone else."

There was a brief pause as Pompadour thought about this a moment and then he nodded. "Thank you, Sire. Yes, that's just fine. Just… try not to fuss too much."

Babar smiled wryly as though he was thinking about saying something along the lines of "Just as much as you do" but he didn't. He said for real, "I'll let everyone know."

"Oh, thank you, Sire!" gasped Pompadour with relief.

"You're welcome."


	6. Chapter 6

JMJ

Chapter Six

So in the days that followed Pompadour was kept very comfortable and relaxed in bed most of the time. He read his book (and a few others) and talked to his visitors; though no one was allowed to tell him anything regarding the court or the public or anything related to his work. Sometimes he just sat and thought, which was still something that he was not used to. Even as a child he used to organize colored rocks for the simple pleasure of looking at its structure when completed, but to just sit and think was a tad too random for him until he came up with a system of deciding what to think about when. In his usual firm way once he made a decision, he was quite more successful at it than others might have been, except when he fell asleep during a thought.

By the end of a week he was allowed to leave his room from time to time and join the others at meal times. Within the next few days after that he was allowed easy brief strolls along the terrace or in the palace gardens as long as someone was with him. He would also play games of chess with Cornelius and Chinese checkers with Babar included or if Troubadour was around on occasion. He got to know Madame better as she was around more often than his colleagues. Besides providing engaging conversations about life on the Other Side, she was an excellent chess player and taught him a few card games that he had never heard of.

When he was not in his room, however, if anyone felt that he was beginning to look tired or strained he was sent to his room to rest for a while.

If it was Babar, which it was often enough, Pompadour, though he may have pouted a little, would soon regain his poise and close his eyes importantly to say, "If you feel it necessary, Sire."

And Babar would reply, "Why, yes, I do, Pompadour."

To this Pompadour would only give a proper nod and allow himself to be led to his room.

One day when he was seated in a parlor with Cornelius after lunch for a time, Troubadour came in rather hastily. It was about work and he motioned Cornelius away. Pompadour did all he could to bite his tongue from asking about it. He knew they had been trained well not to tell him a thing, but this was the first time it looked so urgent in his presence.

"I'll try to be back in a little bit," said Cornelius.

"Oh, take your time," said Pompadour looking sharply away.

He quickly held up a book of maps they had been looking at together right up into his face to try not to think about what in the world Cornelius and Troubadour might be up to. He did not feel that Cornelius would be back at all as had happened a couple times before and those times had not sounded so important as this. As soon as Cornelius quietly closed the door and his footsteps padded away alongside Troubadour's trotting, Pompadour lowered the book and turned up the music that had been playing on the radio.

Oh, he was so close to being well, but yet so far!

He sighed, and tried to tell himself that no matter what it was that they would be able to manage without him.

To his surprise, Cornelius returned shortly. By his appearance, whatever it was that had taken him away seemed to have been solved to his satisfaction at present. Again Pompadour had to bite his tongue, nearly literally to keep himself from asking the burning question just on the tip of it, to ask him what had happened.

Cornelius, whether oblivious or pretending not to notice as he probably knew exactly what was on Pompadour's mind anyway, calmly reseated himself across the small table between them and said, "Now, where were we, Pompadour?"

Pompadour sighed miserably.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I've suddenly lost interest. Perhaps a walk in the far garden might clear my head a little."

Cornelius paused and then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I could stretch my legs a little, and the sunshine is so nice it will surely do you some good."

"My thoughts exactly," said Pompadour.

So out in the far garden they went, slowly walking about among the finely cut hedges and tenderly tended flowers. The breeze was only strong enough to keep the air moving, and the therapeutic sunshine calmed Pompadour down as it broke between the gentle rustling of leaves in the trees above them. Birdsong in the distance eased him all the more, and he sighed pleasantly.

Cornelius meanwhile was chatting idly about how the garden reminded him of a certain hollow he used to go to before Pompadour's time. Pompadour had heard of it before, though not much since the construction of Celesteville. It had been destroyed during a storm long ago and most adults could not fit into it even in its prime, but it had been a favorite place for the children to play in. Cornelius was merely commenting on how well the gardeners had managed to create in this particular garden a certain wildness unlike the other gardens. It was much like a wild hallow even if a bit trimmed back. The little fountain nestled in among the shrubbery reminded one of a gentle waterfall.

"It has a downright homey sort of feel, don't you agree?" asked Cornelius.

"Yes," said Pompadour. "I must admit that upon its creation I did not think much of it. You and I were much more interested in keeping most of the gardens in check with everything else in a straight and orderly manner of perfectly cut hedges. For the public image, of course, since His Majesty wanted the gardens available to the public at certain times, but now that I've been coming here, I'm _glad_ that His Majesty decided to have this one made."

"It's my favorite of the gardens," said Cornelius gazing thoughtfully at the fountain. "Others have also said so."

"Rightly so," said Pompadour.

A buzz went through him with a bout of nausea and his head swam a little.

"Pompadour?"

"I'm…alright. I believe I'm alright," said Pompadour, and he cleared this throat.

"Even still."

"Oh, if you feel that His Majesty would feel it necessary, Cornelius," Pompadour said with a shrug.

"Yes, I believe he would."

So they went back inside and Cornelius helped him up to his room. Admittedly he did feel quite tired suddenly, and if he had lingered outside any longer it would have been difficult to return. Once Pompadour was in bed, Cornelius poured him some water from a pitcher and neatened the covers a bit.

"You don't need to fuss that much," muttered Pompadour. "Everyone else does it enough."

"I know, but I think it's good for you," teased Cornelius.

Pompadour sighed.

Cornelius smiled. "I know this is hard for you, Pompadour. I understand, but you're very close to recovery. It won't be long now."

"But does everyone really find me _that_ overbearing most of the time?" remarked Pompadour with a pout.

"No, no, it's not that," said Cornelius shaking his head after a pause. "Well, I just meant you slowing down for a time. I think that's very good for you. I know you'll be quite refreshed once you're back to work. You're the fastest one among us." He chuckled a little. "I know I can hardly keep up with you even when you're ill."

Pompadour shook his head. "I suppose."

Cornelius looked ponderous a moment and muttered almost to himself more than to Pompadour, "When you're well sometimes you do circles around me easily."

Pompadour raised a brow. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Looking suddenly uncomfortable Cornelius said, "Oh, well, I…"

"No, please, what do you mean by saying I do circles around you? I insist!"

"Well, only if you calm down, you're getting too excited for someone who's supposed to be resting."

Pompadour sighed. He had gotten a little uptight, and he nodded much more calmly.

"Alright, now I would like to hear it, Cornelius."

"You get so passionate about what you do, which isn't necessarily a bad thing in itself, after all, but you pull me into it too before I know what I'm doing," said Cornelius. "Maybe…it's old age catching up with me. I don't know."

"Like when?" asked Pompadour. "Give me an example? I'm serious, Cornelius. When do I drag you into things?"

Looking more uncomfortable than before, Cornelius paused trying to think about how to answer, which was difficult enough with how Pompadour pressed.

"Well, about the naming of the parade, perhaps. I didn't think much about it until you went on about how badly it would reflect upon us having a parade without a name."

"What are you talking about? Of course, it was serious. I'm glad I brought it to your attention then! Just think if the whole Jungle asked us what the parade was about and we told them there was no reason for it, or it was just some silly random reason. Then there was proper length of time to consider all this with the proper amount of busywork and calculating and well— that's why I suggested the committee in the first place."

Cornelius blinked and winced, but more because of how much more weary Pompadour looked suddenly. He had already been out and about most of the day more than usual, and it was obviously harder on him that it would have seemed.

"I'm sorry, Pompadour, I didn't mean…"

"No, no, I'm alright, I'm alright," said Pompadour and he sighed. "Maybe I did overdo it a little. I already admitted it then, but I still don't understand what you mean about 'dragging' you into things, when you seem quite able to drag yourself into things."

Looking apologetic then Cornelius opened his mouth to speak, but Pompadour after examining Cornelius' expression, interrupted again trying to be kind as he said, "It's alright. You don't have to apologize. I _may_ understand a little even if the parade incident may not be the best example. You are a more thoughtful person than I am, anyway. I admit that, and if you mean that sometimes I unwittingly take advantage of that fact, I suppose I can see that now that you mention it. I'll try not to as much in the future."

"I know you don't do it on purpose. I think it's just your way, and my way is my way," said Cornelius.

"Two very different personalities on either side of the king," agreed Pompadour promptly.

"Agreed," said Cornelius.

"I think," said Pompadour musingly then. "I think it is high time I rested for a while. If it's all the same to you, Cornelius?"

Cornelius nodded. "Of course, Pompadour. Rest well."

"Thank you," said Pompadour. "I don't think I'd be able to be as good of a visitor if it were the other way around."

"If it was the other way around, Pompadour," said Cornelius, "you would have informed me right away that I was not fit for duty in the prompt manner that you do and none of this would have ever happened, because even if I was stubborn enough to ignore your council, you would have told the king that I was not fit for duty and I would have been sent to bed."

Pompadour considered this, and then he smiled.

"Quite right, Cornelius. Quite right. Balance in all. Balance in all! Though, you would never have been so stubborn about it in the first place."

* * *

Pressing his forefeet together nervously, Pompadour waited for the result of the Doctor's visit. His teeth were near grinding together. He winced impatiently. The Doctor took his time.

Then turning to Pompadour in full the Doctor said, "I believe now would be alright for you to begin work again at half day at least— longer if your co-workers feel you're doing all right. In fact it would be unhealthy not to start bringing out your daily routine again at this point."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor!" exclaimed Pompadour clamping the Doctor's forefoot between two of his in order to shake it. "You have no idea how much this means to me! Thank you!"

"You're…welcome," said the Doctor in between the enthusiastic shakes, and when Pompadour released him, the Doctor straightened his coat a little and added, "I feel confident all should go well now, but again, don't push yourself, Mr. Pompadour. It will only make it take longer."

Pompadour nodded with a broad grin.

"I understand completely, Doctor!" he said rather regally.

He was so happy about returning to work that it just made it all the more fun and exciting the fact that he had so much to catch up with. Even if he did not look like it the way he gasped and exclaimed about such things going on without his knowing here or such things that should have been done there. Holding a pen in his trunk again made him recall with satisfaction, the first time he had ever held one and had learned to spell his name. The smell of ink and fresh untouched paper made him sigh as some people may over smelling a flower or a freshly-baked pie.

Cornelius and Troubadour certainly saw that he was blissfully happy— so blissfully happy that it was difficult to pry him from work to have some lunch, especially since that meant he would have to wait and see if he would be able to continue work afterwards. As he did not appear tired or strained in any way, however they saw no reason to stop him from continuing the day.

"It's so good to have you back, Pompadour!" Cornelius said.

"You don't know how wonderful it is to be back, Cornelius!" Pompadour exclaimed in such a way that he may have exploded out of his own skin. "I can't wait to see what more I have to catch up with! It's like coming back to life again!"

Though, the enthusiasm of this day did catch up with him the next day. It was mostly that he just was not used to it, however, and had little to do with his illness anymore. Still he was forced into a half day, and it aggravated him tremendously so that he found himself in the far garden again with a great sigh after seating himself on a florally carved bench.

"Pompadour?"

Pompadour jumped in surprise to see that it was Babar standing there in the garden path around a bend in the shrubbery. He was looking at him curiously in that child-like manner he often did.

"Oh, Your Majesty!" said Pompadour trying to look cheerful. "I'm simply relaxing as I'm supposed to. No need to come all the way out here to worry yourself about me."

"I wasn't," said Babar. "I thought you went to your room. I just came out here cuz I wanted to get out of the palace, and Celeste is gunna meet me here."

"Oh," said Pompadour. "Well, then I suppose I'll simply allow you to your free time here."

"She won't be here for a little bit," said Babar with a shrug. "Besides, I don't want to chase you away. There's enough room in the garden for everyone."

Resituating himself on the bench Pompadour sighed again, a most imperious sort of sigh; and he rested his head on his forefoot as he crossed his legs.

"Do you know…?" said Pompadour just before Babar was about to leave Pompadour in peace.

Babar stopped and turned around.

"Yes?" asked Babar with a raised brow.

"Just before the Doctor came to tell me I was well enough to start working again," Pompadour went on, "I nearly spent a whole day not thinking about work."

Babar paused and glanced behind him as though there was some point to this statement that he was missing that might be found in the greenery or from a passing bird. After a moment and Pompadour did not explain nor was there any visual aid, Babar said with a shrug, "Is that a bad thing?"

"On the contrary, Sire. Though I admit it to have been a very strange experience, it was one that I found quite pleasant in a way, but I almost wish now that he had not come to tell me until I was one hundred percent fit for duty."

"Well, you should be within the next few days, right?" asked Babar.

"One can only hope, Your Majesty," said Pompadour calmly, but not withholding some annoyance as though the whole experience was more just a nuisance now than anything else. "I knew it was a mistake to order from abroad in the first place."

Babar studied him. It was strange becoming this familiar with Pompadour for him to be able to say such things to him. As for what to say back, Babar was not sure at first, but then he smiled.

"I think good came out of this," he said.

"You do, Your Majesty?" asked Pompadour curiously.

"Sure. Good things can come out of bad situations if you let them."

Pompadour blinked down at the ground thoughtfully and then nodded.

"I believe I know what you mean," said Pompadour. "That may be the strangest thing of all, that I don't regret _everything_ that's happened here, and in a way I suppose it does share something symbolically with the very attack of Rataxes on Celesteville itself for which the Victory Parade is commemorating."

"Yes," agreed Babar. "Celeste once told me that her family got stronger after that."

"Did she?" asked Pompadour.

"I also never would have met Croc or Zephir," Babar added. "And even Rataxes after everything he did— I think losing to us got something out of his system. I mean, he hasn't been the same since. It's slow, but I think someday we'll be at peace with the Rhinos."

"You mean you think that it was that very attack that knocked some sense into him?" asked Pompadour quite surprised.

"Yes, I do," said Babar. "I always thought so, especially after that time with his general trying to go to war without him."

"Ah, yes, I… I think I see what you mean," said Pompadour tapping his chin, and he smiled. "Well, that is why you're the king, Sire!"

"I think that someday the Victory Parade won't just be our victory over tyranny for ourselves, but also the first step towards the end of the friction between us."

"Because we attacked without hurting them and won with cleverness instead of force?" asked Pompadour.

"Something like that," said Babar, though he was looking a little distant now. "Even Celesteville itself would never have come to be without bad things happening first…"

"Oh, Sire!" exclaimed Pompadour. "That's an entirely different matter altogether!"

Babar shook his head. "No, it's true."

"But you were separated for so long from everyone, and there was the Hunter and your…"

"My mother, I know," said Babar solemnly, "I've already thought about it many times before."

Pompadour had never thought about it like that ever. It made him feel rather foolish and selfish being so upset about having to wait another week before things went back to normal for himself when some things would never go back for Babar's sake. After a time, Pompadour said with care, "I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

Babar shook his head more solemnly then before. "But good did come out of the invasion of the Hunter."

"I know that despite everything," said Pompadour with care, "that this whole experience has made me think of a lot of things that I have never thought of before, including about you and about Celesteville. It's never been my desire to ever have a hair on your head harmed in any way; though, I harmed you greatly because of what I did, but without it, I…well, I'm glad that I understand what I understand now. I don't think I've ever truly taken for granted our lovely lives now in Celesteville or you as our king, but I know that I appreciate it all better and love the city and have full appreciation for everything you've done more than I ever could have before. Please, forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive anymore, Pompadour," said Babar. "From now on…"

"We just move forward?" said Pompadour kindly.

Babar smiled.

"This is why you are the king, Sire!" said Pompadour with a very prompt and regal nod.

"Thank you," said Babar full cheerfulness returning, "but you remember that it is still everyone who made all this possible. The whole herd and the other Elephants too. Otherwise even with everything I learned from the City with Madame, we would have just made a worse place than before."

"Of course," said Pompadour with full understanding as he recalled the cruelty of how Rhinoland was originally run.

Now thanks to the example of Celesteville working out at every turn even those living under Rataxes were living better lives slowly but surely.

Suddenly a call could be heard for Babar. Both turned towards it.

"Babar!" the voice called again.

"Definitely, Celeste, Sire," said Pompadour gently.

There was another voice calling too and it sounded like Arthur.

"Well, I think I'll go for a walk," said Pompadour. "If you don't mind." He winked. "A gentle one. But I'd prefer to stay out of your way."

"Okay," said Babar and with that they parted ways.

**Fin**

* * *

_Note: It's funny how this story was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be. It's simplicity was hard for me to maintain when I usually write about psychotic situations and people with big problems and deep internal struggles like bad guys changing sides or some magical spell falling on someone, but because I wanted this to fit Babar world and Babar characters it had to be gentle. I like Babar for its subtle nature and how all the elephants try to be good people but in a natural kind of way not forced. I wanted to reflect that._

_Another funny thing about the story is that I think I learned a bit about myself writing it even though its not a very long fic. I know it's kinda corny, but I can relate to Pompadour in this story in a way that I wasn't aware of at first. Not about the same things as him of course, but about things I care about I do try to work hard even when I'm not well and should just sit and rest. And even being sick is so BORING beyond anything else._

_Anyway, I know Babar isn't exactly the most popular thing in the world but if anyone has made it this far into the story thank you reading it. It means a lot to me. I hope you enjoyed it._


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